


In the Weeds

by not_who_we_are



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, First Meetings, First Times, Lots of random X-Men side characters, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, complaining, grumpy!Erik, lots of fandom cliches including Charles had an awful mum and Erik's is dead, lots of swearing, restaurant AU, restaurant slang, super positive!Charles, waiting tables
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:39:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_who_we_are/pseuds/not_who_we_are
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik works at one of the largest, busiest, most hectic restaurants in Times Square. Years of serving tourists has left him jaded and generally grumpy. But new transfer Charles Xavier seems determined to change his outlook. </p><p>Drama! 5% tips! Eating dead food! Confusing-when-taken-out-of-context restaurant slang!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Restaurant speak is practically my native tongue, but I know that's not the case for most people. I really wanted to make this authentic, so there is some slang just thrown out there. Hopefully the context clears up confusion, but if not, [here's](http://blog.etundra.com/food-service/glossary-restaurant-terms/) a neat little list I found.

“I can’t fucking believe they’re having me train on a Friday night.” Erik slammed his open palm down onto the host stand as he and Alex peered down at the floor chart.

“Really? You can’t believe it? You know you’re Emma’s pet. She probably thinks she’s doing you a favor.”

“A favor?” Erik bit out, incredulous. “What favor would that be? I’m saddled with some moron for the next 10 hours. I don’t need the extra baggage.”

“Well… you get an extra table?” Alex pointed sheepishly to the sectioned off dry erase sheet in front of them. He tucked his greasy blond hair into his hat while Erik fumed. 

“Woo. Great.” Erik’s trademark cynicism was on full display as he tied his apron securely around his waist. He was able to wrap the strings around a full three times. The effect was that of an inverted triangle. He would have done anything to give the thick, unflattering polo shirt some shape.

He and Alex turned away from the disappointing sheet that had already managed to ruin Erik’s night and headed for the stairs. They leisurely strolled up to the restaurant’s third floor dining room, abandoned but for the other staff members gathered there. 

It was a sea of grumpy faces clad in all black. It was Friday. Upon entering the sprawling room Alex caught sight of Sean who waved at him with a chicken finger. Erik was abandoned for the promise of deep fried poultry and he wasn’t all that upset by it. If he was in fact training someone tonight, he should probably figure out what he was going to say or do or something… But all he could think about was how ridiculous it was to stick him with some newbie on a Friday at the beginning of November. He mindlessly scribbled in his order pad as more people filtered into the space. 

Erik’s eyes flitted around the room. Everyone sort of instinctively shuffled into their little groups. The hosts, Angel, Kitty, and Clarice, banded together like a pack of schoolgirls. Probably because they were. The line cooks who bothered to show up to the pre-shift meetings always hung close. Tonight it was just Logan and Alex. The servers had their own little cliques, but were, for the most part, a united front. Erik had already scanned the names on the seating chart, and it seemed to be the usual suspects you’d find on a Friday night: Bobby, Warren, Jean, Hank, Sean, Wanda, and a few names he’d already forgotten, because, let’s face it, when you work in a four story corporately owned restaurant in Times Square, you work with over 100 people, and you don’t always remember names.

Still, even though a few of the sullen faces he caught didn’t come with a name, he didn’t see anyone wholly unfamiliar. Where was this elusive trainee, he wondered. He fumbled with his phone to check the time. He contemplated running down for a cigarette. If he had a tail all night, lord knew when he’d get a chance to pop outside for some nicotine. 

As he considered the numerous flights of stairs separating him from his habit, a hand thrust into his field of vision. He stared at it for a moment, allowing it to remain anonymous while he planed his response, because at this point he wanted to stab the hand with a pen. No matter who it belonged to. 

“Erik?” asked an unfamiliar, positively posh voice.

Erik’s eyes trailed up the arm, past the demeaning polo, and up to the bright, cheery face of a man he’d never seen before. He grunted. “You must be the guy I'm training.”

“Yes!” the man, with his hand still outstretched, replied. “I’m Charles.”

Erik said nothing, he just stared up into the overly-enthusiastic eyes hovering above him.

Charles cleared his throat and finally brought his hand down to his side. There was a slight fidgeting to his movements, but he was undeterred. “Emma told me to just come up and find you.” He sat down next to Erik, who had been occupying his own table by the window.

“Did she tell you to look for the miserable fuck sitting by himself?” Erik didn’t smile and it was clear by Charles’s reaction that she in fact had. But he was obviously too proper to admit it.

“Oh no, I just… lucky guess?” Erik grimaced. “You’re right. But in all fairness, you are the only one seated alone! So…” He trailed off and Erik glanced at his phone again.

“We have, like, five more minutes before the ice queen comes up and starts rambling. So let’s just cut to the chase. How long have you been serving?”

“Um, two years I suppose? Two summers before I started university.”

“‘University’?” Erik quirked an eyebrow. “Where are you from?”

“Upstate?” Charles shrugged casually and Erik laughed despite himself. He subtly rolled it into a cough lest this Charles character think he could coast through the shift. 

“OK, whatever. Is this your first shift?”

“First and only.”

Erik’s expression bordered on incredulous. “First and only, you say? How do you figure that?”

“Oh my, did no one tell you? I’m a transfer!” Charles looked positively delighted to deliver this news.

“Super,” Erik replied with a wan smile. “And for the record, I just found out I was training you. So, uh, fair warning.”

“Well, I’m sorry to have blindsided you, Erik. I promise not to be a burden. But, I do ask a lot of questions, so fair warning.”

Erik could have sworn the little bastard winked at him. And was that sass Charles was giving him? Erik’s mouth began to open with a debasing retort just as Emma strolled in. Lucky for you, Erik thought.

Charles sat in the chair beside Erik like an eager puppy. His spine was rigid and his hands were literally folded in front of him. It was like they were in grade school. Appropriately, Erik affected his grade school posture as well: slid halfway down his chair with his long legs sprawled out in front of him and a pen in his mouth. He’d always had an oral fixation. 

Emma’s pre-shift spiels were pretty much always the same. Sell sell sell! Be nice! Do your side work! Stop walking by trash on the floor! Stay off your phones! Erik casually slipped his cell back into his apron at that last part. 

Erik zoned out while she was explaining why the bartenders couldn’t free pour anymore. Erik didn’t care, because Erik knew why they couldn’t free pour anymore. Because, no matter what Emma was saying now, they both knew Janos was giving away liquor at the first floor bar. Erik had told her that, and this was her non-confrontational way of dealing with it. Let’s punish everyone by implementing measured pours, he thought bitterly. He only bartended on Sundays, but he was dreading having to bust out the jiggers. He wasn’t some kid; he knew how to make drinks. It was insulting. And the only reason Janos wasn’t out on his ass was because Emma was sweet on him. If it had been anyone else, they would have been gone.

Erik was roused from his rage-induced daydream by the wobbling of the table. Charles was now standing beside him addressing the room. Had Emma really instructed him to “tell them a little about himself”? Poor guy, he thought idly.

“Well, there’s not much to tell I suppose. I’m a transfer from Upstate. I, uh, moved to the city when I started at Columbia. I’ve been here for a few months, but I had some free time so I popped in to see if you were looking for anyone… And, um, that’s about it?”

“What are you doing at Columbia?” Angel shot across the room.

“I’m studying genetics.” Charles flashed a winning smile that was filled with pride, but not obnoxious.

“Hear that, Hank!” Alex shouted, “Now you’ve got another nerd to play with!”

This elicited a few giggles from around the room. Erik snorted but it was muffled by the hand in front of his face. He glanced up to see Charles’s face turning slightly pink. He was hit with a flash of empathy. First day in a huge, imposing, monstrosity of a restaurant sat in the heart of Times Square and some dickhead fry cook is giving him a hard time. Burden or not… 

“Yea, Alex, being intelligent and having a future is soooo uncool,” Erik drawled sarcastically, a bit surprised by his sudden protective flare.

Charles was just as surprised as he glanced down to offer a tiny, but obviously thankful, smile. 

Erik could see the gears turning in Alex’s brain. Either that or he was looking for something to throw. Sadly, his jab wouldn’t be returned because Emma was over it. “All right, loves. That’s enough of that. Let’s get downstairs and relieve the day folks. And check your sections!” she hollered as the group steadily dispersed, no longer listening.

Erik rose to stand next to Charles. He clapped him firmly on the back. “You ready for this?”

Charles scoffed, but Erik could sense the nervousness behind the bravado. “I told you, I’m a transfer. I’ve done this.”

“You’ve never done this _here_.”

“Well it surely can’t be that much different,” Charles offered almost as a question, no longer attempting to hide his nerves. 

As they descended the stairs to the second floor, home of the main dining room, Erik felt sort of like a ringmaster. He made a show of waving his arm in a grandiose flourish to reveal the chaos they were walking into. 

Charles gaped a little at the sight before him. Children seemed to be screaming from every corner. Servers pushed past them with armfuls of dirty plates. A girl with a positively voluminous ponytail bounded over in a huff and, without so much as a greeting, commanded, “Give me your card so I can transfer 13 to you they’re just sitting there and it’s your section now anyway and I have to take the train to Long Island tonight to my boyfriend’s and I seriously can’t stay here past 5:00 again.”

It was all one sentence and Charles really was getting overwhelmed. Erik passed her his plastic swipe card with a nod. She took off towards a computer. 

“That’s Lorelei. She’s awful. Ignore her. Forever.”

When Charles looked back to consider how such a small, seemingly perky girl could be so awful, he saw she was already single-mindedly cutting through the crowded dining room. In one motion she handed back the card and removed her apron.  
  
"You gunna clean your other tables, Lore?” Erik asked with a slight grin. Charles figured he knew the answer.

“That’s what busboys are for,” she called over her shoulder.

Erik smiled wide at Charles and nudged him toward the freshly transferred table that was positively littered with empty coffee mugs and discarded sugar packets. “Welcome to hell, my friend.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More words that may confuse people!  
> Here are some simple definitions: 
> 
> Expediter/expo - the person in charge of getting the food out of the kitchen correctly.  
> POS - short for point of sale. Basically the computer you use to place orders.  
> Sidework - the task(s) you're in charge of throughout your shift.

“So how is he?” Sean slid beside Erik to lean against the POS station. Erik had taken up residence and was watching his trainee intently.

“He’s absolute garbage. Can’t multitask. Slow as shit on the computer. Jean almost ripped his throat out. It took him almost 5 minutes to ring in a Mudslide.”

Sean winced. He knew first hand about Jean’s temper. “So, uh, why is he running your whole station then?”

Erik motioned helplessly. “These people,” he waved in the general direction of his tables, “they love him. They’re practically throwing money at him.”

“Well, he is adorable,” came a familiar voice from over Sean’s shoulder.

Erik craned his neck to look past the ginger beside him. “Leave him alone, Warren.”

“What could you possibly mean by that, Erik? I was just saying he’s absolutely delicious. And that accent! I can see why your tables are charmed.” Warren was gazing at Charles like a love-struck teenager. “Do you think he’s gay?”

“Down, boy. Give him a few shifts before you pounce.”

“Yes, sir!” Warren offered up a clumsy, overly dramatic salute and stomped away toward the kitchen.

Sean sighed loudly, openly texting in the middle of the dinning room. Erik shot him a dirty look, but bit his tongue. He had to remind himself he wasn’t the phone police and he was _no one’s_ boss. 

“Don’t you have some sidework to do?” Erik cringed as the words exited his mouth. So much for not being anyone’s boss…

“Nah, I’m on ice duty. Last time I was back there it was totally full. It’s all good.”

“OK, well then I think 23 is looking for you,” Erik lied so he’d pocket his phone and unplant his feet. Good thing Sean was completely oblivious, or Erik might feel like more of an asshole than usual.

“Oh, shit! I forgot to ring in their dessert!” Sean scampered off just as Charles approached, finally pulling himself away from the group of Swedes chatting his ear off. 

“This is positively delightful, Erik. Shame on you for getting me so worked up.” Charles was beaming, his blue eyes bright and his face joyfully flushed.

“Yea… this won’t last.”

Charles narrowed his eyes in question, but Erik straightened up and headed for the kitchen. “Let’s go run some food.”

Charles practically had to jog to catch up, genuinely perplexed by where they were going. “We’re going to the kitchen?”

“Uh huh. That’s typically where they keep the food.”

“Don’t the food runners take care of that?”

“We don’t have food runners,” Erik replied with a note of mockery in his voice.

“We don’t? Then who’s been running all my food?” Charles was legitimately confounded, and Erik couldn’t help but think his last restaurant sounded like a Club Med getaway.

“That would be me. And doing all our sidework.”

Charles’s mouth formed an ‘o’ shape. There were no words, just the slightly shocked, still confounded expression that translated to a silent ‘o’. 

“I told you, Charles. This place is no joke. And you’ve barely seen any of the fun stuff.”

They turned the corner just as someone rushed past, yelling “Comin’ around!” Erik dodged them with feline grace as Charles scuttled back like a crab. The lighting in the kitchen was harsh and yellow and unforgiving. The air was mildly smoky and almost stifling. Metal scraped against metal as sauté pans slammed around and tongs scraped. It was sensory overload for Charles; the smells, the brightness, the crushing bodies… and the yelling. No, Charles thought, that’s not yelling, that’s screaming. 

“Where the hell is my mid-well steak for 81?” hollered the beet red gentlemen with the bandana tied around his head. “Logan! Answer me!”

Erik placed a hand on Charles’s shoulder, pulling him back from the chaos. He lowered his voice, “That’s Scott,” and motioned to the man flailing wildly and all but climbing on top of the expo line.

“Is he the kitchen manager?” Charles asked meekly.

Erik snorted as if Charles had just told a particularly amusing joke. “Nah, he’s just the expediter. But don’t tell him that. He definitely _thinks_ he’s the KM.”

“Logan! What the fuck, dude. Answer me when I call to you!”

“Eat me, Scott.” Logan grumbled out from behind the line. 

Although momentarily distracted by the juxtaposition between Logan's imposing form and his hairnet, Charles was shocked at how many bodies were crammed into the small space. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic. 

“Logan! Stop fucking with my tips!” Jean leaned through the heated window as if trying to make her words carry further.

“Calm down, Red. It’s right here.” Logan gave Scott a smug smile, but his eyes were on Jean.

Charles might be new, but he wasn’t stupid, and the look on Scott’s face was nothing short of murderous. “Don’t talk to the servers, asshole. Talk to your expo,” Jean bit out, grabbing her steak from Scott’s hand. She plastered a smile on her face as she bounded out the door.

“I need a runner to 13!” Scott shouted pushing the plates down the counter and out of his way.

Erik swooped in and grabbed them, motioning with his head for Charles to follow. When they were out of the kitchen Charles blurted out, “What the hell was that?”

“Ha! Ridiculous, right? A twisted love triangle is what that is. Avoid it at all costs. Their drama is like a black hole. And Scott power-trips like a champ whenever he works with—” Erik cut himself off as he reached the table. He placed the food down, offered some pleasant parting words and picked up right where he left off. “Logan. Which is a lot. Just run food, ask Scott directly if you need sauces or have a recook, and whatever you do, don’t fuck with Jean. You’ll get eviscerated.”

***

It was 2 AM when Charles and Erik finally got to sit down. As Erik showed him how to run his closing report and separate his money, Charles’s eyelids began to slide shut.

“Wake up, cowboy,” Erik said with the hint of a smile.

“That was a bloody long night.”

Erik shrugged. “Eh, you get used to it.”

The corners of Charles’s mouth turned down, and Erik rolled his eyes at the sight of it.

“It’s not that bad,” he chuckled. Charles didn’t seem to be buying it. “Honest. Most people are tolerable. Most guests are tourists you never have to see again. And most shifts go by fast.”

With cautious trepidation Charles asked, “How did I do?”

“You were fine. But you need to pick up the pace and stop talking to all your tables like you’ve got nothing else to do. And you need to learn to multitask. And you need to start yelling 'behind' or you’re gunna get trampled. And you need to familiarize yourself with our POS system. You can’t take that much time to ring stuff in.”

“Is that all?” Charles asked sarcastically, his eyes glazed over.

“And you need to get ready for nights when the money isn’t this good.” He waved a roll of bills in Charles’s direction. “You didn’t get stiffed once tonight. That’s fucking impressive. And unusual. Even for a guy with an accent.” Erik peeled off a few $20s and pushed them across the table.

“Wait, no. I’m training. I get hourly.”

“No, seriously. Take it. You earned it.” Erik _never_ gave his trainees money. But Charles had worked for it, so it only felt right. “Use it for a cab. Trains’ll be running sporadically this late.”

Charles wanted to push the bills back across the table, but something in Erik’s expression made him keep his mouth shut and accept the generous gesture. Instead he said, “So you think I’ll be OK by myself next week?”

“Do you see some of the idiots running around here? You’ll be fine. Plus, I’ll be around. Just ask if you’re unsure.” Erik gave Charles a crooked little smile and pushed his hair back. “All right. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the encouragement thus far!  
> The goal is to update once or twice a week. I'm sort of addicted to writing this, so I don't know how many chapters it will end up being.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's hopped on board!  
> I know I'm personally weary to latch onto WIPs. (I've been burned too many times!)
> 
> Oh, and if the language is too confusing, LET ME KNOW! And I'll do more definitions, or ease up a bit.
> 
> 86 - no longer have the item.  
> 4-top - the number followed by "top" indicated how many in the group.  
> Pop - when it's busy.  
> Tip out - the act of tipping coworkers (bussers, bartenders) for their work based on how much you sold.

The thin, metal pan sailed past Bobby’s head. It hit the kitchen’s far wall with a thunderous clang.

Erik clasped his hands together, nodded his head once, and announced, “All right, everyone! We’re 86 bakers. Tell a friend.”

The staff gathered in the back of the house slowly began to close their gaping mouths and file soundlessly back into the dining room. There was an eerie silence that echoed through the near vacant space; the calm after the storm.

Charles strode in mere moments later. “How are we out of baked potatoes,” he glanced at the wall clock, “at 7 PM?” Clearly word of the 86ed item had been effectively spread.

Erik glanced to his left where a sea of potatoes lay like carb-heavy fallen soldiers. Then he pointed with his chin to the back corner of the prep area.

Victor paced the small space. His long hair was tied back and tucked into his hat, but wispy strands now stuck out from all directions. Logan was bent toward him speaking in hushed tones.

Erik grabbed Charles by the elbow and led him away from the scene as he began to inquire, far too loudly, “Should we go get Emma?”

“No we should not go get Emma. Everything’s fine.”

“We’re just out of potatoes because someone threw all the potatoes!” Charles shot back.

“They’re just potatoes! What’s Emma going to do anyway? Grow more?”

Charles gave in and stopped concerning himself with such trivial matters. “So what the hell happened?” He wanted the good stuff.

“I don’t know!” Erik all but exclaimed. “I think Victor thought Bobby was getting too friendly with Clarice.”

“Wait, which one is Bobby?” They parked themselves by the main entrance to the dining room. It had fast become their gossip spot. 

“The blondish one?” Erik made vague shapes with his hands, “With the…” and moved around a bit.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to mime.” Erik continued his jerky flailing motions. “Stop it! I don’t know what that means… and people are looking at you!” Charles erupted in a fit of giggles, and Erik soon followed.

It was probably the exhaustion that came from nine straight shifts, or the ridiculousness of the situation, or the lingering image of flying potatoes, but Erik found himself laughing a lot more easily. 

“Which one is Clarice then?”

“She’s the host that dyed her hair pink and Shaw made her dye it back?” Charles’s expression told him that didn’t help. “She’s working tonight. The one that isn’t Angel.”

“Oh! OK. See how easy that was? God, you’re rubbish at describing things. Remind me to never play Charades with you.”

The two continued their clandestine meeting, sporadically pausing to check on their tables. It was a slow Wednesday, and neither was complaining. As November wore on, most days, especially weekends, had become almost unbearable. There was a constant stream of tourists, from both near and far.

Erik had explained to Charles the influx was as least partially due to the Radio City shows. The Rockettes’s performances were a big draw, and you could practically set your watch by them. The place would fill up and empty out like clock work before and after shows. This, coupled with the holiday foot traffic, made for long, stressful, maddening days.

But not tonight for some reason. Charles and Erik lackadaisically made their way through the dining room putting up chairs. They worked side by side, chatting continuously, occasionally pausing, in no real rush. 

Erik glanced at the cable box stealthily hidden behind one of the flat screen TVs. The glowing green numbers announced it was almost 1:00 AM. Erik absently noted this, and the fact that he was not yet running for the door as if the building, or he himself, were on fire. He just effortlessly lifted another chair and placed it on top of the long table in front of him.

Charles did the same across from him. He was jabbering mindlessly, in that painfully exhausted way Erik was personally all too familiar with, about a four-top of German men that ran him around during the one brief period the restaurant had been full.

“Every time I went back, they needed something else. How is that possible? Butter. Steak sauce. Another beer. Why can’t you ask me all at once? This place is too big, Erik. No wonder you’re thin as a rail.”

Erik smirked at him. Charles swore he wouldn’t take up what seemed to be the staff’s favorite hobby: complaining. But he had, rather quickly too. Although most of the time there was no venom behind his aggravation. 

“Did they tip you, though?”

“Um…” Charles dug for the memory, and Erik thought to himself that this is what made Charles different; he didn’t carry the weight of the slight or disappointment around with him. It was nice. “I think it was something like $5 on $120? Or something. It doesn’t matter, they were just obnoxious.”

“At least you got something to cover tip out.” Erik bit his lip as if summoning up a memory. “This one time, over the summer, there was this table of Italians. Four of them. They sat at my window table for almost three hours. Took it over for the entire pop. They drank and drank and drank. Canadian Club and Sprite, I’ll never forget. I still cringe when someone orders it.” He looked off to the side as he recounted, in painstaking detail, the events of the run-in. 

“Their bill ended up being $250.” Charles’s eyes widened a bit. The food was insanely expensive, but even that was a huge check for four people. Erik didn’t notice his reaction to the amount, and pushed on, as if he _had_ to finish the tale, purge the memory. “I dropped the credit card slip. Stood by the table as the guy signed it. Took it back to the POS stand to make sure I had seen it right. And I did: a giant zero with a line through it.”

Charles exclaimed, caught up in the expertly woven tale, “You’re kidding!”

“Nope. So I went back over and asked him why.” Erik flipped another chair over and eased it on to the tabletop. At this rate they’d have them all up by 3:00 AM. 

“You did not!” Charles was flushed and enraptured. “The gall! What did you say?”

Erik waved his hand dismissively, as if waving away Charles’s enthusiasm (and mild hero worship), but he smiled wide. “I simply asked if there had been something wrong with the service.”

Charles gasped dramatically. “No!”

“Yes!” Erik mocked, mimicking his breathless tone.

“And! What did he say? Was he mortified? I bet he was mortified.”

“Well, no. Not at all actually. He told me everything had been more than fine. So I asked why he didn’t feel compelled to leave a tip.” Much to Charles’s chagrin, Erik’s expression darkened, the giddiness and victory of the moment passing. “I started to explain that we lived on tips, and if everything had been good, great even, that it was customary to compensate… He cut me off.”

“And?”

“And told me he didn’t force me to work for tips. And it was my employer’s job to pay me, not his.” Erik’s cloudy expression deepened, creases forming above his brow, eyes trained thoughtfully on the floor. 

Charles was fumbling for words, of comfort, of kindness, of levity. The mood had taken a sharp turn and he wasn’t entirely sure why. All he knew was that Erik was glaring at the carpet beneath his feet and Charles didn’t like it.

But as quickly as it came, it was gone again, Erik meeting Charles’s eyes with ease. The storm that only moments ago brewed was now all but gone. Charles filed it away.

“Let’s get these fucking chairs up so I can get a drink.” Almost too casually he added, “You should come out tonight.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, as if not quite understanding the invitation.

“To the bar. A bunch of us usually head to The Old Castle. It’s a few blocks up. And they know us there, so the vodka cranberrys are $9 instead of $10.” Erik flashed his painfully earnest, crooked smile. “Unless you’re not legal,” he added hastily.

“I assure you I am more than legal,” Charles scoffed and he thought he saw a slight blush rise on Erik’s cheeks. Or it could have been the physical exertion brought on by heaving around what had to be hundreds of chairs. “How old do you think I am?”

Erik tried, and failed, not to fumble for words. “I—I don’t know. You said… you mentioned when you started ‘University.’ I wasn’t sure—I didn’t know how old that would make you… 20?”

Charles laughed in a tone that sort of sounded like he was laughing _at_ Erik, but he wasn’t, and he cut off his peals quickly. “I took some time off before starting at Columbia.” His answer was short and to the point and Erik sensed there was more to it than that as the words felt heavy when they exited Charles’s mouth. _He_ would file that away. 

They finished up with more urgency than either man had felt all night. They both pulled on black pea coats, and Erik remarked it was like looking into a mirror that made him look shorter and paler. Charles swatted him with a gloved hand as they exited the building. 

“And really, Erik? 20?” Charles huffed out through the scarf tied around his face as they turned onto Broadway. “You flatter me so.” This time Charles was almost certain Erik’s cheeks stained red, and not because of the biting cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kisses to you all!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all those who've subscribed and stuck with this!
> 
> I think it may be pertinent to explain "in the weeds" in case it wasn't clear. It basically means you're overwhelmed, busy, stressed, can't catch up.

“Wait, was Erik just speaking French?”

“Yea, he speaks German too. And Spanish. And it’s not even ‘kitchen Spanish.’ Like he really speaks it; not just swears and _pollo_.” Sean had his back turned to the room, fiddling with a stack of ones, apparently trying to do math in his head.

“That’s… well, impressive,” Charles breathed out, observing Erik from a distance as he leaned down to eyelevel jabbering happily with a child clutching an American Girl doll.

“Totally. He usually only busts it out to talk to kids… or tables he doesn’t hate.” Sean shuffled bills back and forth. “Hey, what’s $47.60 minus $100?”

“You mean $100 minus $47.60,” Charles semi-corrected absently, eyes still trained on the breathtakingly adorable scene in front of him.

“That’s what I said.”

“No. It isn’t.” Charles was barely paying attention.

“Fine. That. What’s that minus that?”

“Use the calculator on your phone.” Charles hadn’t meant to sound so short, but sometimes Sean was simply exasperating. He seemed blown away by the prospect of there being a _calculator_ on his _phone_. The person who texts non-stop. The person who hides in the walk-in freezer, desperately hoping for a signal, to take phone calls. The person who seemed to have his mobile grafted to his hand. He appeared shocked that there would be a _calculator_ on his _phone_.

Erik glided past toward the beverage station. Charles followed, falling into step. 

“Are you heading to the bar tonight?” unmasked hope coloring his words a little too obviously.

“Um. Probably,” Erik replied, seeming distracted and grabbing a stack of cups.

“Are you in the weeds?” Charles asked, a little confused because he was bored out of his mind.

“Uh, not really.” 

Which to Charles meant that he was, in fact, a little overwhelmed. Erik never even alluded to being weeded unless he was deep in it. 

“Let me bring some drinks for you.”

“Um, yeah, thanks.” Erik broke his concentration long enough to glance up and smile at Charles. And that was all the thanks he needed. “Can you bring two Cokes to 35. I got double sat while I was talking to 41.”

This wasn’t the first time Charles had noticed Erik constantly felt compelled to justify his needing help. He wondered why. Charles was proud and stubborn himself, but always sought aid if he was drowning. There was no shame in asking for help, and besides, Erik always had his back. 

Instead of giving the third degree to a man who was clearly flailing, he grabbed two cups and headed for the dining room. 

Upon his return to the beverage area he slipped casually into the conversation already in progress.

“I don’t know why you’re already talking about softball. We _just_ finished getting our asses kicked. I’d like some time to recover.” Bobby slumped against the wall absently sipping a Red Bull. 

“We need to get organized earlier next year,” Lorelei whined. “It’s part of the reason _why_ our asses got so thoroughly kicked.”

“Well it’s not like we can start planning now. Half these people won’t be here in three months,” Warren threw over his shoulder as he scurried out, expertly balancing an over-filled tray.

Charles was always amused by the turn these conversations took. It was a rotating cast as everyone floated in and out as time, and their tables, dictated. 

“I can’t believe Red Lobster beat us. Five times.” Angel had silently slipped into the space without Charles noticing and began pouring multiple packets of sugar into a huge plastic cup. 

“Because you guys suck?” Jean hurried past, clearly busy. Not too busy to be sort of rude, Charles noted.

Angel filled the comically large cup with copious amounts of coffee and then emptied a pile of individual creamers into the mix. Charles’s eyebrow shot up at the sight. 

“Red Lobster were the ones that sucked,” Bobby called after Jean, who was very much out of earshot. “Is Clint playing this year?”

Sean had slinked into the small area that was beginning to seem even smaller with all the bodies stuffed into it. He was mindlessly poking at his phone. Shocker, Charles thought. 

“Sean! Is Clint playing softball again this year?”

Sean shook his head as he slowly returned to the present. “What? Clint?” His eyes narrowed and then widened with his realization. “Oh! You mean Red Lobster Clint. Yea, if he’s still there. Dude, did I tell you the chick he was dating went totally insane? He might have to quit.” Sean’s face suddenly became serious. “He thinks she tried to kill him.”

The softball conversation had begun to bore Charles, who was still the only one who seemed to have no tables. He should have questioned Angel when she popped in to make her huge coffee… But he began to care less as the topic became something more gossipy. Even though he had no idea who Clint and his girlfriend were. 

“Maybe she was always crazy?” Bobby mused. 

“Hey, Wanda,” Sean called just as she pushed through the swinging doors separating them from the dining room. “When you worked at Red Lobster, was Natasha crazy?”

Wanda’s expression was nothing short of confounded. “Huh?” She was obviously busy as well. 

Why am I not busy, thought Charles. It was then he realized he’d yet to see Erik return to the back. He moved toward the door to see if he could be of any assistance to the possibly-still-weeded Erik, right as he casually strolled in. 

Erik leaned against the wall right next to Charles, appearing to be passing time rather than actually listening.

“Was she crazy? What are you asking me?” Wanda snapped, hastily filling cups with ice.

“Yea, when you worked over at the Lobster, you worked with her, right?” Bobby asked.

“Just for a few weeks. I left almost right after she got hired.” She shook her head as if still trying to grasp the intrusive line of questioning. “Is Natasha crazy?”

“Yes!” Sean all but shouted. “My buddy says she went crazy and tried to poison him.”

Charles could almost feel Erik’s body shift as he held back a laugh. 

Wanda shrugged. “I suppose she was a little high-strung. Why does this matter again?”

“Cuz I think Clint’s going to quit! Maybe he can work here…” Sean pulled out his phone and began texting furiously. 

“That’s the exact reason you don’t date coworkers,” Erik grumbled. “Especially not in restaurants.”

Charles wasn’t exactly sure why, but Erik's admonishment made his chest clench. 

 

***

 

Erik was perched on his usual bar stool. His long legs reached the floor effortlessly. He still wore his black polo, but it was now paired with a crimson hoodie. He was arguing with Warren. And had been for the last 20 minutes.

“What I’m saying is, it’s bullshit to implement all these rules when we know what the real problem is.”

“And what I’m saying is that I agree. But we can’t do anything about it. So what’s the point of getting so pissed off?” Warren finished off his beer and reached past Erik to place the bottle on the bar.

“But it slows the bartenders down and puts us in the weeds. And it’s barely Decemeber. It’s going to get worse once we open up the third floor dining room.”

“Erik, what else can you do, man?” Warren’s voice was surprisingly tender and imploring. “You’ve told Emma. You’ve _tried_ to tell Shaw. Once it gets busy enough, I’m sure the ‘rules’ will get thrown out anyway. And who knows,” Warren smoothed his sandy blond hair, “they could get rid of Janos in January.” 

Erik let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Sure.”

“You have to let it go,” Warren’s voice was low and Charles wouldn’t have caught it if he hadn’t been listening intently the entire time.

Erik clapped Warren on the shoulder as the man walked away armed with another beer.

Charles bit his tongue, desperate to inquire about that last bit of their conversation. Let _what_ go? What was Erik _not_ saying? Instead, his alcohol addled mind opted for “I didn’t know you spoke a million languages.”

Erik let out an unhindered, unselfconscious laugh. “Not a million. Just three.”

“Four,” Charles corrected immediately. “English counts.”

Erik nodded and the two fell silent. 

They sat at the bar, facing forward, each clutching a whiskey on the rocks. It wasn’t Charles’s drink of choice (he was more of a gin man) but the twin orders made buying multiple rounds easier. And tonight there had been multiple multiple rounds.

“It’s pretty impressive, you know.” 

“What is?” Erik asked with a smirk.

Charles had picked up on the previous conversation, leaving Erik in the dark. “The languages. I admire it. It’s impressive.” Charles was very aware that his knee was resting against Erik’s leg. “You’re impressive.”

Erik chuckled, leaning over and bumping Charles with his shoulder. “Nah. Far from it.” 

Charles’s eyes widened earnestly and he turned in his seat to face the self deprecating man beside him. “Are you serious? You certainly are impressive. You’re kind and hardworking and intelligent and handsome.” And yes, Charles had called him handsome.

“Thanks, Charles.” And yes, Erik seemed to ignore it. “But I’m also a waiter.”

“So am I!” Charles exclaimed. “So are all of them,” he motioned around the bar. “There’s no shame in that.”

“You’re going to school so that’s easy for you to say. You’re not a lifer.” Erik remained facing forward, not meeting Charles’s eyes.

“And you don’t have to be either.” Charles placed his hand on Erik’s arm, leaning in a bit too close. He could smell the food and grease that permeated Erik’s clothes, but he could also smell the clean scent of shampoo and soap. He inhaled deeply, inappropriately.

A slight smile pulled at his lips, and Erik placed his hand atop Charles’s. “Thanks,” he offered quietly. And they sat there, a bit too close, in the crowded bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hold me to it, but on paper, this looks to be 6 or 7 chapters.*
> 
> Thanks again for all the comments :)
> 
>  
> 
> *or more


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for all the feedback!
> 
> I think the only "term" that might need defining is "cut," or to "get cut."  
> It just means when you are allowed to exit your shift. So when someone gets cut, they stop taking tables and can get ready to leave.

“ _Novios_ ,” Angel called from behind the host stand with a smirk.

“Huh?” Charles craned his head, trying to catch her eye before she slipped into the kitchen.

“She called you ‘boyfriends’ in Spanish.” Alex leaned up against the doorframe that led into the back.

“Wha— Why?” Charles’s eyebrows shot up and he did his level best not to let his cheeks flush.

“How many other people do you see him bringing coffee to? No one. He’s worked with some of them for months and barely knows their names. But he knows you drink…?”

“A grande sweetened iced coffee with soy and a really long straw?” Charles was, for some inexplicable reason, immensely embarrassed, even though Alex’s tone was neither judgmental nor mocking.

“Yea. That. Why are you drinking an ice coffee in December? See? That’s even weirder.”

“It’s weird?” Charles’s eyebrows were now helplessly meeting his hairline. 

“Calm down, man. It’s good. He’s been less of a controlling prick.” Alex picked up a toothpick and disappeared back into the kitchen leaving Charles to self-consciously clutch his beverage. 

He now intensely regretted his decision to work the double shift. (Even though he had done it mostly because he knew Erik would be working.) Maybe he could tell Emma he’d changed his mind? Tell her, sorry, but there was a big exam he’d forgotten about, and he simply had to study. And why was the coffee weird? That’s what they did. If one was working all day, the other would grab Starbucks, or Jamba Juice, or whatever. It was a nice gesture. A pick me up. He saw people do it all the time! Angel always bought Kitty a cookie when she got her Frappuccinos…

But perhaps it was a little odd. No, Charles shook the thought out of his head. They just got on well and, surprisingly, had a similar sense of humor. That’s why they had become fast friends over the… had it only been six weeks? It felt like a lot longer to Charles. Fast friends. Good buddies. That’s what they were.

***

Erik was hoping he’d get a chance to talk to Charles before the night shift started. When he dropped off Charles’s coffee before the pre-shift meeting, he hadn’t realized they’d been planning to open the third floor up to guests. Erik’s stomach dropped when he saw Charles’s name along with Hank and Kitty on the floor chart.

He had immediately panicked _for_ Charles. Erik knew he had mentioned the horrors of the third floor. It was like 20 degrees warmer, for one. The tables didn’t seem to have a set arrangement therefore keeping track of table numbers was nearly impossible. There was no separate kitchen; all food came from one flight below. And, perhaps worst of all, no bar.

Erik rubbed his temples trying to suppress his mild horror. He would have felt sorry for anyone that got stuck up here. And he did. Hank was simply not fast enough. And Kitty? She hadn’t even finished her server training! She was supposed to remain a hostess until after the new year. So much for that, Erik thought, biting the inside of his cheek. He hoped he was just being an over-dramatic, obsessive worrier. He did that sometimes. This job was not for those who needed to be in constant control of their surroundings. 

Charles would be fine, he told himself. He was competent and held his own during the busiest of shifts. Plus, Erik would try to help if he could. 

But that, as they say, would be easier said than done.

***

“I am getting _destroyed_ out there,” Warren exclaimed as he slammed open the door to the beverage area. “Like, demolished. Run over. _Killed_ ,” he was rambling to no one as he grabbed the coffee pot and ran back out.

“Warren’s talking to himself,” Wanda muttered from her place across from Erik, “must be pretty bad…”

Erik was also having a pretty bad night. He had been triple sat repeatedly as he couldn’t seem to keep his tables from leaving at the same time. The positive thing was that, once he’d dug himself out, it left him some time to jump behind the bar and help Betsy. She was having a tough time keeping up with the numerous frozen drinks the servers kept ordering. Erik was always keen to help, especially when it allowed him a few moments in one spot so he could look for Charles.

He’d seen him run by a few times, face red and sweat beginning to form at his hairline. Erik had told him to stop wearing a long sleeve shirt under his uniform polo. Apparently it kept him from burning his arms on the hot plates. Erik smiled inwardly at the thought. 

As if on command, Charles ran by again, this time looking more frazzled than before. “Where’s the damned coffee pot!” he screamed at the empty warmer.

Erik called to him from across the space, “There’s no carafe upstairs?”

“There’s no fucking _anything_ upstairs, Erik. Except seven tables all looking for me!” He was literally pulling his hair out. His fingers mercilessly twisted the brown locks. Erik cringed.

“I think Warren has it!” he shouted over the roar of the blender. “Go back up! I’ll fill up a new one and bring it to you!”

Charles let go of his hair, looking as though he could cry with relief. The grateful expression he threw Erik was enough to make him abandon his own tables and run upstairs to help in any way he could. Instead, he just abandoned Betsy and her dozen piña coladas to grab a coffee pot.

As he ascended the stairs two at a time, he could hear the distant commotion from the overwhelmed kitchen. It was mostly Scott’s voice shouting above the din, and he couldn’t help but think how drunk everyone would be getting tonight. 

***

The only good thing about being on the third floor was that Charles got cut first. It was only an hour before the restaurant closed, but he was still out well before the majority of the staff. 

When Erik walked into the bar, Charles was cemented in his usual seat, his coat slung over Erik’s stool. He looked like a car had struck him.

“Is this seat taken?” Erik mused, lifting up Charles’s discarded outerwear.

“Finally,” Charles huffed out, his shoulders relaxing. He was now slumped forward, practically wrapped around his pint glass.

“Beer?” Erik motioned as he sat down. 

“Beer and shots,” Charles corrected pointing at the small empty glass on the bar. 

Erik gave him a look of mock disgust, noting that Charles already seemed a little tipsy. 

“Join me?” Charles asked.

Erik couldn’t help but acquiesce. He took two shots in rapid succession and settled in to nurse his own pint.

“It was really bad, huh?” Erik asked after taking a few minutes to let the alcohol begin its trek through his veins.

Charles rubbed his face with his hands. He looked like a beaten man. “You have no fucking idea.”

“Oh, I do. I’ve been up there before. It’s utter bullshit. You’ve got nothing; you’re flying blind.”

“And they don’t stop seating you! Groups just kept coming up! We were all so weeded and they kept sending people up!” Charles sounded traumatized. There was still an edge of panic in his voice.

“Being weeded is all in the mind.” Erik placed two fingers to his temple, rather dramatically. Charles erupted into wheezing laughter that only intensified as Erik glared.

With a roll of the eyes Charles took the bait. “Explain, oh great one.”

“Seriously, Charles. It is. You can only do one thing at a time. You just keep moving ahead, doing what you can when you can, and you’ll dig yourself out. Ya know, just keep on swimming.”

Erik hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Clearly those shots had snuck up on him.

“Pardon?” Charles inquired both amused and genuinely intrigued. 

Begrudgingly, Erik explained. Mostly because he knew Charles would never shut up about it if he didn’t. “I started out as a busser at my first restaurant. I really didn’t want to serve, I was _terrified_ , and not great with people, but I needed the money, so I gave in. My first night on the floor was a disaster. I had three tables and I couldn’t keep up…”

Charles was having a difficult time envisioning an Erik that “couldn’t keep up.” He was always the picture of grace and composure. 

“In the middle of the shift I was ready to walk out. It was too much, and it was apparently pretty obvious because one of the servers pulled me aside. She looked at me, dead serious, and asked if I’d ever seen _Finding Nemo_. Of course I had, so…”

The crack of laughter that emanated from Charles was like thunder. He clasped his hand over his mouth in an attempt to keep it all inside. 

“Why is _Finding Nemo_ so funny?” Erik asked self-consciously. 

Immediately Charles regretted his alcohol-induced outburst. He wasn’t fond of the way Erik’s eyes clouded, his face hardening. “Oh, Erik, it’s not! I just didn’t expect the story to take this turn. Please, go on.”

After a moment of hesitation, Erik pressed forward. “So as I said, I had,” he repeatedly pointedly, “and she told me that whenever I got weeded, just concentrate on moving forward and repeat ‘just keep swimming.’” Erik paused, a melancholy, far away grin lifting up the corners of his mouth. “It helped. Picturing all those fish, pushing so hard, not giving up… helped. It always reminds me how valuable perseverance is.” Erik trailed off, his voice tight and wavering. 

Charles felt as though his heart might explode. He had a million questions, but all he could focus on was Erik’s crumbling façade and a lost little clownfish.


	6. Chapter 6

“No no no no no no no…” Wanda was repeating the word frantically as she tore through the kitchen. Her face had crumpled into something between a frown and a disgusted grimace. If Erik hadn’t known better he would have thought he spied tears forming in the corners of her eyes. 

She barreled through the cramped space, muttering, and nearly knocked Scott over as he stepped back and into her determined path. 

“Watch it, Maximoff!” He shot her a disapproving look as he took a deep pull from the gallon jug of water he kept beside him.

Erik followed her dutifully out of the kitchen and around the corner to the bar. She was scanning the shelves desperately, literally wringing her hands. Words spilled nonsensically from her lips as Betsy glared at the invasion of space.

“Only _bar_ tenders behind the _bar_ , Wanda. Thems the rules.” Betsy reached behind Wanda to grab a bottle of Grey Goose. She poured the perfectly measured two ounces into a rocks glass and again reached around the unmoved Wanda, this time, giving her a nudge. “Seriously. What are you doing back here?”

Wanda finally shook the dazed look off her face, but kept her eyes trained on the shelves of bottles. “Bottle of cabernet.”

“What kind?” Betsy was obviously overwhelmed and clearly biting back annoyance, but kept her tone light and kind. Erik respected that. She turned to face the growingly distressed woman. “This whole shelf,” she motioned, “all cabs. What kind?”

“No,” Wanda replied, her expression crumbling further, “to sell. I need a small bottle… to sell.”

Betsy’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Why the fuck would you sell a bottle of wine on the Saturday before Christmas? Are you new?”

Erik had been eavesdropping under the guise of reorganizing his money. He had a feeling things were moving in this direction. He had seen Wanda struggling with the table. He knew something like this would happen sooner or later.

“I know!” Wanda shouted dramatically, capturing the attention of a few passing servers. “I told them we were 86. They didn’t _believe_ me.” 

“You’re so fucked, Wanda,” Sean spat as he walked past.

Betsy glared at him before settling her sympathetic gaze back on Wanda. “Sweetie, you know the 750 bottles are all upstairs now. Shaw or Cain is going to have to unlock it for you.”

“Uh!” Wanda lurched back and practically clung to the wall. “I’m not asking Cain. He’s pulling food with Scott! Whhhhhhhhhy!”

“Shaw’s in the office. I just passed by him,” Warren offered before walking away with four cups expertly balanced in one hand.

Erik reached his hand across to Wanda, “Give me your card. I’ve got your tables.” She stared at him wordlessly. “Go! I’ve got it!” he growled out.

Wanda practically tossed the card at him and took off running.

Betsy shot Erik a soft look of silent endearment. In answer, he kind of lost his shit.

“Well, it’s fucking bullshit. Now she has to run all over the place to find a manager, just to run upstairs to find a bottle, to run back downstairs to _give it to you_ so you can _give it back to her_ once she’s proven she rang it in.”

Betsy shrugged, shaking the vodka filled tin over her shoulder without the hint of flair or enjoyment. “Like I said, thems the rules.”

“Yea… Emma’s rules…” He turned to leave and nearly slammed into Charles.

He was flushed, and _still_ insisted on wearing two shirts. “One of your tables just tried to pay me. We don’t look at all alike, correct?”

“Ugh, I’m coming.” Erik slithered into the dining room, Charles trailing behind. “Want to help me run Wanda’s section?”

“Sure. Wait. Why?”

“She sold a bottle of wine. She’s upstairs—“

Charles gasped, “Why would she do that!”

“Yea, I know,” Erik waved it away, unwilling to unleash his pooling rage on helpful, kindhearted Charles.

  

***

“Jean!” Erik bellowed from the kitchen.

Jean stomped in, shoulders slumped and a murderous glint in her eye. “What.” It wasn’t a question.

“Why would you ask me to check your sidework if it’s not done?” Erik slammed the door of the small reach-in fridge shut.

“Oh come on,” Jean whined, “I _did_ it.”

“No. You didn’t. Nothing’s labeled right.”

Jean pouted, her bottom lip protruding comically. “Ugh, don’t be a dick. I’ve been here since noon.”

“I don’t fucking care. If you don’t do it, it just means I have to. And I’m not going to.”

“God! You and you’re fucking clone. You know, Scott’s already at Old Castle, and I want to get out of here before the snow starts. You’re killing me.”

“Clone?” Erik ignored the rest.

“Little Lord Fauntleroy,” she rolled her eyes in answer to Erik’s narrowed ones. “Charles? He’s on my ass about pepper shakers. He’s a little you… and you both need to calm down so people can get home pre-blizzard.”

“I thought you said you were going to Old Cast—” Jean cut him off with her exasperated huff, but Erik didn’t care. He had gotten the response he was after.

“I know what I said!” She flung herself at the fridge and started dramatically yanking pans of sauces and cheese out. “I hate you, ya know.”

“Good thing I don’t care.” Erik let a self-satisfied grin slip across his lips. He wanted to go congratulate Charles on his part in successfully riling Jean up. As he rounded the corner, he peeked back in, “And Jean,” she let out a low hum of acknowledgment, “that little Lord Fauntleroy reference was weak.”

Jean’s response came in the shape of a angrily thrown pen.

***

“Maybe coming out tonight was a bad idea.” Charles dug his hands further into his pockets, exhaling deeply, his breath visible in the night.

Erik exhaled as well, smoke billowing out in front of him. “You’re probably right. But damage done.” He kicked at the snow accumulating on the sidewalk. 

“How were we to know it would _actually_ snow? They always say it, sure, but how often does it actually happen?” Charles was mumbling absently. 

“I should get going.” Erik took one final drag of his cigarette and tossed the butt into the jar balanced on the bar’s windowsill. “The trains’ll be all fucked up because of this.”

Charles bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to leer at Erik’s long digits as he fumbled with a stick of gum. “Do you want to go back in first?”

Erik cringed and Charles nodded in agreement. Everyone was exhausted and the increased stress was causing tempers to flare. All the alcohol only served to make it worse. 

But just as the decision had been made, Sean popped his head out. “Logan looks like he’s gunna stab Scott. Wanna watch?”

“I think we were just going, actually.” Charles grabbed Erik’s arm and yanked him across the street before he could succumb to the siren song of potential violence. 

Erik pulled his collar up and squinted against the whipping wind. 

“Why don’t you have a scarf,” Charles asked, his head tucked down to avoid receiving a mouthful of snow.

“Too tough,” he answered with a playful smile.

“Erik, you can’t walk home in this.” Charles exclaimed as he nearly slipped off the curb. 

“Eh, it’s not that far. The 7 train is right there,” he pointed in a vague direction, “and it’s only a 15 minute walk from my stop.”

“No,” Charles shook his head adamantly. “That’s absurd. Stay with me. My apartment is right around the corner.”

Erik’s ice-flecked eyebrow shot up. “ _Right_ around the corner?” Charles had told him he lived in Manhattan, but Erik hadn’t guessed he was this close to Times Square.

“Yes. Right up 52nd. And getting to work tomorrow will be much easier from here rather than coming all the way in from Queens in a blizzard.” Charles smiled meekly even as his tone remained matter-of-fact. He hoped he hadn’t seemed too insistent. He really didn’t want Erik attempting to utilize public transportation in such inclement weather. But he was also excited by the prospect of spending time alone with the other man… to chat. 

Erik looked unconvinced so Charles decided to employ some earnest candor. “Look, I don’t want you attempting to utilize public transportation in such inclement weather.” 

He opted to leave the last part out.


	7. Chapter 7

As he crossed the building’s threshold, brushing the heavy snow from his shoulders, Erik was suddenly very aware of the doorman eyeing him.

Charles shuffled in behind him, shaking off like a wet dog, strands of hair clinging to his face. He nodded at the man in polite recognition. Erik racked his brain, but was unable to think of a single person he knew that lived in a doorman building. The alcohol buzzed through his system and he fought back the urge to blurt out a series of decidedly uncouth queries. As they stood silently in the ascending elevator Erik settled for, “Your roommates won’t mind…”

He paused and Charles glanced at him as they exited the elevator and stepped into the off-putting hallway. It was all dark wood and plush carpets and plants. Real ones.

“Hmm?” Charles hummed as he slid his key into the lock and turned the brightly polished knob.

“Oh,” Erik fought to regain focus, “that I’m here.” He exhaled audibly, still acclimating to the hotel-like appearance of the hall. Then he saw the inside of the apartment as the door swung open.

For a moment Erik just stood in the doorway. From there he could see the, what he would call sprawling, living room and kitchen. Charles flipped multiple light switches revealing a sea of exposed brick and tile. When he was finally able to tear his eyes away from the massive window that overlooked the white-blanketed city, Erik realized Charles was staring at him.

“What?” he asked, certain that he had managed to miss some comment or question.

“I haven’t any,” Charles replied simply.

“Haven’t any what?” Erik was struggling to keep his gaze trained on Charles. His eyes kept slipping back to marvel at the palace that stood before him.

“Roommates.” Charles looked uncomfortable and Erik took that as his cue to actually enter the apartment.

“You have no roommates?” Erik paused and removed his soaking wet, snow-caked shoes. “So you live alone?”

“That would be correct.” The chuckle that escaped from Charles’s mouth was self-deprecating and self-conscious. 

“How do you live here?” Erik couldn’t keep it from slipping out. Way to keep it classy, he thought as the myriad ways Charles could choose to take the question flooded his mind. He was beginning to form his apology when the sound of another small laugh reached his ears. 

“I suppose this conversation was inevitable.” Charles flopped down on the bright red sofa. “It’s my own fault. I suppose bringing you here is my way of backing myself into a corner.” 

Charles twisted his body to reach behind the couch. Erik was scarcely in the room, hovering uncertainly by the front door.

He could barely see what Charles was fiddling with, but soon was being offered a shimmering crystal glass filled with clear liquid. Good, alcohol, Erik thought. He ambled forward, blindly reaching for the tumbler. Erik could now see the bar set up behind the piece of crimson furniture. Multiple glass decanters with sparkling gold stoppers populated the cabinet top. Fighting the urge to say it aloud, Erik thought only fancy rich people in movies kept their liquor in special containers. I mean, they come in a bottle, he thought absently, sipping from the etched glassware.

Charles patted the unoccupied cushion beside him. Erik sat on the edge of the sofa, primly, knees pulled close, as if attempting to fold his long limbs into his body. 

“So I’m sort of rich,” Charles blurted out. His manner would have been more appropriate for a murder confession. The unamused chuckle that followed held a mix of discomfort and sadness. “Or rather,” he added, “my family is.”

“Uh huh.” Erik wasn’t sure what to do with the information. Retorts and questions raced through his head. But he held it all back because Charles looked as though he had just confessed to running Erik’s puppy over with an 18 wheeler. The tone didn’t match the information. 

“Surprise?” Charles’s expression was pained, and at the same time, oddly hopeful.

“Do you think this is a big deal?” was all Erik could think to say, because, he was really quite curious why Charles seemed to be wilting like an unwatered fern.

“Isn’t it?” he scoffed, practically spilling his drink with the accompanying gesture. 

“No. I mean, why would it be? Good for you.” Erik wasn’t being sarcastic or droll or condescending, which shocked him slightly. He meant it. And he wanted Charles to stop biting a hole in his cheek. “Did you hide this? Why did you hide this?”

“You aren’t angry?”

“Why would I be angry?” Erik shot it out in a quick breath, holding back an incredulous laugh. 

“Because I have no right to be working alongside you when I have all this!” Charles waved his hands about again, drops of gin escaping from his glass.

“You have every right to work wherever the hell you want. What the fuck are you talking about, Charles?”

Charles sighed and slowed his speech as if addressing a dimwit. “You work so hard, and here I am encroaching on your tips. When I don’t need it.”

“You earn that money, make no mistake.” Erik relaxed his posture and leaned back into the inviting cushions. “Is that why you never mentioned this?”

Charles nodded slowly, eyes darting about as if scrambling for words.

“Did they give you a hard time at your last restaurant?” Erik was beginning to understand the source of Charles’s trepidation.

“Yup.” 

Erik hated that look that crossed Charles’s face. He looked ashamed. 

“I just wanted to get out from under my family’s thumb.” Charles ran his hand through his still moist hair. “They use their money as a weapon. Which is why I wanted nothing to do with it for so long. My mother lords it over us, holds it in front of us like a carrot on a stick.” He glanced up at Erik as if seeking permission to go on. 

Erik nodded.

“I tried to do Columbia with scholarships and waiting tables, but it just wasn’t happening. I caved.” Charles’s blue eyes reddened, tears threatening to spill. “I just wanted it so bad.” 

Erik reached out and placed a hand on the other man’s knee in a strained gesture of comfort. 

“Why did you start working here?” It was the question Erik wanted to ask the moment he stepped into the absurdly upscale building.

“Lonely? I guess?” Charles sniffled and brought his gaze up from his lap to rest on Erik. “You may not have noticed, but I’m not great at making friends.”

Erik hadn’t noticed. “Actually, I hadn’t noticed.” His thoughts were becoming dangerously unhindered by the drink he had been unconsciously sipping.

Charles scoffed. “Thank you for that. But I’m not winning any popularity contests. This was a good chance to start fresh, where no one knew about the money or the status or anything. It was nice to slip into a routine and spend time with… people.” 

Although it went unspoken, they both knew “people” meant “Erik.”

Charles sniffled again, and actually wiped his nose on his sleeve. He absently dabbed at his eyes and forced a smile, obviously attempting to steer the conversation elsewhere. “Look at me going on. Poor rich boy with the mean old mummy. Such a silly twat.” 

Erik smiled, causing Charles’s smile to morph into something genuine and warm. 

“My mom’s dead,” Erik blurted out and Charles’s grin seemed to snap in half, brows furrowing. 

“Erik…”

“No, no, no. I’m not saying it for sympathy. I just felt like I owed you.” Erik’s words were strong and sure, but his hands were shaking a bit. “You told me something you’ve kept guarded. Now it’s my turn. I was working at one of the restaurants in Queens, going to school at the same time. My mom got sick. And then she got sicker. And then it was cancer. And then she was dead,” he sucked in a long breath. “I stopped going to class when she was hospitalized, and after she… well, I never went back. And then they were looking to train new managers, so I threw my hat in the ring. I figured, why not? I wasn’t making great money, and I had school loans and medical bills, and I was there anyway…” Erik trailed off, almost unsure of where to go next.

“How did you end up in Times Square?” Charles asked, hoping to guide Erik back to him, and away from the black chasm of sadness he seemed to be toeing. 

Erik let out a bitter laugh. “Emma.”

“How do you mean?”

“Emma and I bartended together at my old store. We were close, and she wanted the manager position too,” Erik shrugged, “and she got it.”

“Well, there’s surely more to it than that.” Charles bit his lip, “were you two dating?”

Erik nearly choked on his beverage. “Hardly,” he coughed out, genuine amusement playing on his lips. “Jealous?” 

Now it was Charles’s turn to sputter and turn various shades of red until Erik mercifully continued.

Erik regained his more serious demeanor and pressed on. “She told the area manager that I wasn’t stable enough for ‘such an important position.’ My fucking mother had just died!" His voiced cracked. "I found out and confronted her. And that was it. I transferred a week later.”

“But now you’re working with her again?”

“Yea, after about a year they sent her to the Times Square store. She blew in there like nothing had happened. It was all ‘sweetie’ and ‘darling.’ I hate her faux maternal bullshit.”

“But you stayed?” Charles felt like he had to pull every detail out of Erik. But he wanted the whole story and refused to let him clam up now.

“Hell yes I did. I wasn’t going to let her run me out of another store. I usually just ignore her and everything’s fine. Except with this Janos thing.”

Suddenly a million bells and whistles went off in Charles’s head. Everything clicked into place and he fought the urge to shout “Eureka!” Instead, he opted for filling their now empty glasses, and asking casually, “the rules for handling of liquor, you mean?”

“Yes!” Erik hissed out. His eyes darkened and he nearly emptied his newly filled glass in one gulp. “She is fucking him! He is stealing shit! And no one will listen to me!” 

“She threw you under the bus to get the position and now she’s abusing the power it affords her.” Charles said it more to himself than anything, but Erik was nodding furiously.

“Whatever,” Erik said, waving his hand in an attempt to literally brush the conversation away, “she did me a favor.”

“How do you mean?”

“I never really wanted to stay with the company. It was me trying to turn my plan B into something more secure. But I don’t want that.” Erik stared out the window at the falling snow. 

“What do you want?’ Charles asked quietly, watching Erik watch the slow, meandering flakes.

“Hmm?” Erik muttered after a distracted pause.

“What is it that you want?” Charles suddenly didn’t care to hide his usually timid gaze. He let himself study the line of Erik’s jaw, the hollow of his cheeks, even the wispy sadness that clouded his eyes. It was all so stormy and beautiful and Charles was only vaguely aware that he was sliding closer to Erik. 

Charles wanted to quell the tempest brewing behind Erik’s mask of calm. He wanted to shower him with words of kindness and comfort. But most of all, he wanted the answer to his question even though he knew he hadn’t asked it properly. 

As the two sat much too close in the starkly lit parlor, more than a little drunk on both booze and emotion, breathing each other’s air, Charles decided to leap. 

“Do you want me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating change to accommodate an explicit chapter!


	8. Chapter 8

Silence has the ability to be deafening.

Charles had always hated the term; it made no sense to him. Silence is golden. Silence is a virtue. Silence is deafening. How can this “silence” be so many things? Literally, it is the absence of sound. How can this absence carry such weight and become so many things? 

He suddenly understood it all the moment Erik’s silence began to make his brain throb. It was the only thing he could hear.

Charles didn’t know what to expect upon uttering such a desperate, and really quite vague, question.

“Do you want me.”

It hung in the air, less of a question now and more of a shadow.

And all Charles wanted to do was run. 

He couldn’t blame it on the alcohol. And as much as he wanted to point the finger at the free-flowing emotions, he couldn’t do that either. He had known he’d push the conversation here the moment he’d invited Erik into his home. In fact, he’d known long before that.

It wasn’t infatuation, or a crush. It was gravity. He and Erik were in the same orbit. They were simply being pulled towards one another and there was nothing Charles could do to stop it. 

So he asked the question he felt, in his bones, that he already knew the answer to. 

But Erik wasn’t answering it.

And the longer it went unanswered, the more doubt crept in to settle like an unwanted houseguest. 

If someone had asked Charles yesterday if he was afraid of rejection, he would have laughed in their face. The sound would have been sharp and colored by boisterous confidence. He would have gained some perverse pleasure by lying to himself, convinced he’d _never once_ been rejected (certainly not by his family).

But now there was a question. And seconds ago that question had a definite answer. And now it didn’t.

So Charles wanted to run. Bolt down the stairs and into the blistering cold, barefoot, just to escape this silence. Because Erik wasn’t even looking at him.

Instead he stood. His movements were controlled and mechanical, but once he was on his feet, he was unsure where exactly to go. His run to freedom no longer seemed like a viable option.

Erik looked up at him, and Charles realized he was still very much in the other man’s space; he was practically standing between his open legs. Charles remained stock still, now pinned by the intensity of Erik’s gaze. 

“What are you asking me?” Erik’s words were so close to a whisper that Charles nearly leaned down to hear him. 

Charles didn’t give an answer, because he didn’t really have one. Of all the scenarios he’d mulled over, or obsessed over, really, this had never been one of them. There was never silence and trepidation. It was always just skin and moans and relief. Every sequence of events he’d dreamt up began and ended with complete and utter surety; the fulfillment of placing the final puzzle piece.

Erik grabbed Charles’s wrist as if to keep him in place. He apparently had no idea Charles had been frozen since the moment their eyes had met again. 

Erik tugged lightly, pulling Charles’s hand. His whole body came along for the ride; it was the only invitation he needed.

Charles’s knees came to settle on either side of Erik’s lap, but he kept his weight on them and not the warm body beneath him. Erik reached up and dug his hand into the hair at the base of Charles’s skull, fingers raking with comforting impatience. 

“You have no idea how I want you,” Erik exhaled out, eyes slipping closed.

Charles sank down, sitting on the man’s lap. He pressed their bodies together, and very nearly smashed their faces together, now desperate to take what had only moments earlier seemed out of his reach.

Charles’s lips were soft and plump, like down pillows. Erik’s were inexplicably cold and dry and seemed to be trembling. But Charles took no notice of this, claiming them with a chaste pressing together of mouths. 

They stayed, unmoving, sharing each other’s warmth and presence. The final puzzle piece in place.

“Then why haven’t you taken me?” Charles’s lips brushed Erik’s as he spoke, both unwilling to give up any of the closeness. 

In answer Erik licked Charles’s upper lip, slow and deliberate. Charles ground his hips down and fought back a groan, embarrassed that such a small thing could elicit such a vulgar reaction.

Instead of inarticulate noises, Charles opted for more words, and they began to spill unhindered in the space between their mouths. 

“You’re so lovely.”

Erik licked again, this time at the bottom lip.

Charles shuddered. “All I do is think about you, about this.”

Erik was breathing hard, nearly panting, the exhalations warming Charles’s already flushed face. He allowed his tongue to trace between the small part in Charles’s lips.

Charles groaned, and let his fingers find Erik’s shoulders, digging them in like desperate claws. “I wasn’t sure you liked me…” The words were hushed and tinged with lust, but Erik could still read the lingering worry.

“Wasn’t sure I liked you?” He tugged gently on Charles’s hair. “You’re the only one I _do_ like.” Erik’s tone was playful but sincere and he arched is body up to press firmly against the man straddling him. 

Charles sighed deeply, twisting his hips down unconsciously, dragging his cock against Erik’s stomach. “Like this. Liked me like this,” he breathed into Erik’s mouth, the tip of his tongue dancing across the other’s lips.

“Was I not obvious enough, Charles?” Erik pulled his head back to look into the heavy-lidded, serene face above him. 

“Obvious? Absolutely not.” Charles attempted to lean forward to recapture the lips that had escaped him, but Erik kept a firm grip on his hair.

“Oh, no?” he replied, sounding stung. “I follow you around like a puppy. I bring you cold coffee in the middle of a snow storm. I even remember your ‘really long straw,’ and you can’t tell.” Erik huffed in annoyance, but arched up again.

“I’m really quite a dullard,” Charles mewed, licking his lips and struggling forward. 

Erik was unwilling to give up dominance even though he had someone seated on top of him, effectively pinning him down. He desperately wanted this moment to last. He wanted the sight of Charles squirming and whining for his kiss burned into his brain. He wanted the frustrated man to beg and plead and whimper. But most of all, Erik wanted the confessions. He wanted to know his feelings were reciprocated. That, in this short time, Charles had felt it too. The “click.” That it was as real to Charles as it was to him. That what had taken shape between them was more than a stress-induced workplace tryst. Erik wanted to know Charles’s secrets. 

“I wasn’t even sure you were gay.”

This caused Erik to laugh, loudly, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent space. “I’m not,” he answered coyly.

Charles slid his hand down from its resting place on Erik’s shoulder. He let his open palm move across the firm, muscled expanse of chest, and abdomen, letting it rest on the obvious bulge in Erik’s work pants. 

“This would say otherwise.” Charles gave a little squeeze to punctuate his point.

“I’m not anything. I like what I like. And I like you, Charles.” He let his free hand come up to cup Charles’s pale cheek. “Look at you. You’re stunning.”

Charles blushed, letting his gaze slip down, embarrassed by the sincerity of the compliment. Erik pulled him close, pressing their foreheads together.

They were sharing breath again and the rediscovered nearness was making Charles feel impossibly drunk. “You have no idea what you do to me,” Erik whispered. He had both hands on Charles’s face, settled just below his jaw. Charles nearly gasped as Erik finally allowed their lips to touch.

The kiss was messy and desperate. Both men were exhaling raggedly through their noses, their hands scrabbling frantically across unfamiliar bodies. Erik licked and nipped at Charles lips, enjoying the small sounds that escaped him. Charles broke the embrace, leaning back, and earning a displeased grunt from Erik.

With a small grin, Charles pulled his shirt over his head. He tossed it aside and yanked at the collar of Erik’s polo. “Off.”

“Yes, sir.” Erik sat up just enough to slide the article off, then reached for Charles. But he stayed firmly in place, staring fondly at the prone man before him.

“Do you know how many times I jerked off thinking about this? You beneath me with that impossible waist and that cocky smirk.” 

Erik groaned hoarsely and wrapped his arms around Charles to drag him down. 

Now it was Charles’s turn to let out a breathy grunt as bare skin met bare skin. The warmth was tremendous and the soft firmness of Erik’s skin was intoxicating. Strong arms wound around him and Charles bucked his hips again. 

Erik let his hands roam the planes of Charles’s back, his tongue exploring Charles’s mouth. He was mapping him out, memorizing him with every caress, every dig of fingers. And as Erik’s hands explored, Charles became more frenzied, deepening the kiss and practically riding Erik, desperate for friction. 

In between the drugging kisses Erik attempted words. “Do… you… do you… have…”

“Have?” Charles wouldn’t stop long enough to allow for full sentences.

“Condoms?” Erik manages to gasp out.

Charles stilled. 

“You don’t, do you?” Erik was struggling to catch his breath, wiping at his raw lips.

“I take it you don’t either?” Charles was afraid to lift his head from Erik’s shoulder for fear of bursting into frustration-fueled tears.

“I absolutely do not. If I had, we would be fucking right now.”

Charles gasped a clearly lusty and thrilled gasp. “I could go get some?”

“I’m not allowing you to traipse through a blizzard to Duane Reade just so we can get off.”

“But I want to,” Charles whined, head still firmly planted in the soft, warm spot where Erik’s neck and shoulder met. 

Erik kissed Charles’s chest lightly, fingers running up and down his sides. “There are other things we can do, Charles. There’s plenty of time for more… vigorous activities in the future.” 

“You mean this will happen again?”

“What do you mean ‘this’?”

“Us. Naked. And rutting like animals.”

“How are you asking me this? I thought things were pretty clear.” Erik licked along Charles’s bicep making him shiver.

“But you said things about… dating at… work,” Charles was losing concentration as Erik’s sucking and licking became more deliberate and focused. 

“I say lots of things,” Erik replied, distracted by the miles of milky flesh laid out before him. Charles resumed his squirming. “Now take off your pants so I can jerk you off while we make out.”

Charles sat up so quickly he nearly fell over, mouth hanging open in surprise. He didn’t even attempt to retain composure, stumbling backwards and awkwardly kicking his trousers off. 

Erik lifted up from the couch just enough to remove his own clothes. He watched Charles struggle, amused, but infinitely aroused by the sight before him. Even with his mussed hair and jerky movements entirely lacking in grace, Charles was breathtaking. His skin all but glowed in the dim space, and even like this, he radiated warmth and joy. Erik felt a tightening in his chest as if the muscles there were being strummed like a harp. Charles did this to him. This painfully earnest, ridiculously kind, stunningly handsome man made him feel like he was drowning. And he had never been more happy.

Charles, having finally freed himself from his black polyester prison, practically ran back to the sofa. His eyes settled on Erik as if seeing him for the first time. He had clearly not noticed Erik removing his pants. Or settling himself into a comfortable reclined position. Or slowly start stroking his dick while watching Charles. 

Erik’s gaze was like fire on Charles’s skin. His eyes moved lazily from face to stomach to groin and back to face. Charles was less subtle, staring unabashedly at long fingers wrapped around an impressive cock. The pace of Erik’s strokes were leisurely and maddeningly seductive. Charles dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, almost certain he was actually drooling.

Charles wanted to pounce on Erik; ravage and devour him. But he barely felt able to breathe let alone _move_. Erik reached out his unoccupied hand to pull the gawking statue-man to him. 

Erik settled Charles flush beside him. In a single, unhurried movement, Erik released his painfully hard cock and locked on to Charles’s, whose gasp was immediately swallowed by Erik’s sinfully wet and vulgar kiss. 

Without prompting, Charles groped at Erik’s lap, and upon finding his leaking cock, began pumping in time with Erik. They jerked each other slowly, exchanging deep yet teasing kisses. Occasionally Erik would squeeze the head of Charles’s cock, or lightly scratch his nail along its underside eagerly consuming the sharp breaths and muffled moans. 

Erik relished the closeness. Not just the nearness of bodies, but the exposed and unguarded emotions; the way Charles seemed to trust him without question. Even though his desire to freeze this moment, this intense openness, was earth-shatteringly strong, Charles’s ministrations were beginning to make the need for release stronger. 

Charles quickened his movements and Erik responded with the same until they were no longer kissing, just breathing and moaning into each other’s air. Charles came first with an small shout. The hot liquid painted his stomach and the heat and slickness of it drove Erik over the edge. He found his own release with a low, guttural groan, forcing his eyes open to take in one last glimpse of the spent man beside him.

Erik sat for only a moment before moving to stand in order to search for a towel, or tissue, or his own shirt for clean up purposes. But Charles tugged him back down and drapped his leg over Erik’s, nuzzling his arm sleepily.

“Thank you,” Charles whispered dreamily.

Erik was about to smack him and demand he not be thanked for the privilege of participating in one of the hottest acts of mutual masturbation maybe ever, but his reflexes were dulled, so Charles was able to continue uninterrupted.

“Thank you for wanting me how I am.” 

The emotion and reverence and _honesty_ in Charles’s tone caused the strings in Erik’s chest to tighten again. And even though he was already getting cold, and desperately wanted to wipe the come from his chest, he allowed himself to be cuddled. 

It felt like the only option.


	9. Chapter 9

Erik wasn’t much for cliché. The thought of slipping soundlessly out of his lover’s apartment made him cringe. He conjured up images of his frazzled self desperately clutching discarded clothing to his bare chest, eyes darting nervously around the room seeking escape. 

That’s not what he wanted.

He wanted to meet Charles’s sleepy gaze and kiss his too-dry lips and amble out into the snow together wondering why they had decided to skip breakfast. But Erik’s shift started at 10:30, and Charles was sleeping like death. He had poked him, shaken him, practically shouted in his ear, but the most animated response Erik was able to elicit was a grumble and a rollover. 

Erik placed Charles’s cell phone on the pillow by his ear. If he didn’t see him by 12:30, he’d call, and hopefully that repellent Black Eyed Peas song he’d set as Erik’s ringtone would rouse him from his corpse-like slumber. 

Erik penned a quick note on what appeared to be an unused pad specifically for making grocery lists. How domestic, Erik thought with a soft chuckle. 

He left the slip of paper by Charles’s apron, where he was sure to see it, and left.

***

Charles woke up with a start to the sound of his alarm blaring in his ear. For a moment he couldn’t figure out why it was so unbearably loud, until he realized it was, literally, pressed against the side of his head. Had he fallen asleep on the phone? 

No.

He had fallen asleep with Erik.

As the haze lifted, his brain clicking methodically into action, it all flooded back. Erik in his apartment. Erik on his couch. Erik in his hand. And then Erik in his bed. 

Charles rolled over onto his back, a smile plastered to his face as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He sighed deeply, remembering fondly, until he realized he was alone.

Pulling on yesterday’s pants, Charles meandered from room to room, not finding Erik. He circled back to grab his only clean shirt and made for the door. When he reached for his apron and keys, he almost missed the note, his mind busy trying to recall if he had perhaps offended Erik.

He picked up the adorable note paper (“My Shopping List,” it read, and there were bunnies all over it for some reason) unable to suppress the grin tugging at his lips.

_You sleep like a coma patient._  
Try not to be late.  
There’ll be a donut and a ridiculous coffee waiting for you because I’m certain you’re leaving without eating. 

_E_

Charles folded the paper in half and slipped it into his coat pocket, fingers dancing over it again and again.

Despite the subzero wind-chill, the cloud covered sun, and the knee deep snow drifts, Charles’s cheeks flushed warm and his disposition was nothing short of sunny. He had never walked to work with such a buoyant spring in his step.

***

Charles trudged up the restaurant staircase, leaving a trail of snow as he went. After a few deliberate kicks to loosen the compacted, sludgey mess, he felt guilty, knowing that Kurt would most likely have to run down and mop up this hazard multiple times throughout the shift. They worked that boy too hard, he thought absently. 

He peeked into the main dining room hoping to spot Erik before dumping his coat in the makeshift locker room. He saw a few tables seated, and spied Hank and Sean lackadaisically wandering about, but no Erik. Truth be told, he was also looking for his coffee…

He almost slammed into Jean as he swung the locker room door open.

“Oh!” she breathed out, startled. “There you are!”

“Yes, here I am,” Charles replied, shrugging out of his jacket. 

“Sean and I have been looking everywhere for you!”

“Why? Am I late? I swear I was on the schedule for—” Jean cut him off.

“No no no,” she was waving her hand dismissively. “Did he call you?”

“What? Shaw? No one called me, Jean.”

“No!” she was almost shouting now, her voice shrill and strained. “Erik! Did he call you?”

“Why would Erik call me? He’s here.”

Jean’s eyes shifted to stare at something on the floor. That something was apparently very interesting because she was suddenly unwilling to meet his gaze. It would have been comical if Charles’s heart hadn’t begun thudding in his chest.

“He _is_ here?” She still refused to look up, and Charles’s tongue felt swollen and clumsy in his mouth “Jean, is Erik hurt?”

At that the hesitant girl’s head snapped up, auburn hair billowing, face calm and serious. “No no, Charles, he’s OK. I just thought he would have called you… I don’t want to be the one… I mean… I don’t…” and she trailed off.

“Christ, Jean, what the fuck happened? Did Erik lop off a finger cutting lemons?” Even though it was a sarcastic quip, the mere thought of even a minor injury befalling Erik made Charles’s throat constrict. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know.” Jean shrugged as she spoke, her arms falling helplessly by her sides. 

“Did he not show up or—”

“He was here all right.” Her words were heavy, loaded, and Charles was about ready to scream.

“Jean, please,” he implored, “stop being so infuriatingly vague and just fucking tell me what’s going on.”

“Charles.” The pause was pregnant. “Erik quit.”

Charles felt a rush of confusion, as if Jean had just spoken to him in some alien language. He had heard the words, but they lacked any real meaning. They were letters strung together and there was certainly _meaning_ behind their deliberate ordering, but they weren’t saying anything. 

Erik needed this job, needed the money. He would never just walk out, with no notice, no plan. Waves of unrelated thoughts flew at Charles and amongst them were panicked thoughts of it being his fault. Had Erik quit because he couldn’t work with him after what had unfolded between them? 

No, that’s crazy, Charles thought. Why leave the note and the promise of circular fried dough?

”Would you please tell me what happened?” Charles struggled to maintain composure. "What exactly happened, Jean?”

“I can’t tell you the whole story. I wasn’t here for most of if. I saw him with Emma outside the office.” Jean’s face was hard, like a granite mask. “Charles, he was screaming at her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that angry.”

“But why? There had to be a catalyst. Erik wouldn’t just explode—”

“Yea, I’ve never seen him _that_ angry. But I’ve seen him get pretty close. You haven’t been here that long. You don’t know what an unreasonable jackass he can be.”

Charles could feel his skin prickling. He could feel himself forming awful, venomous words in his suddenly very dry mouth. But he bit back the white-hot flare of secondhand insult that Jean’s words had invited. He attempted to give her the benefit of the doubt by not assuming she was deriving some sick gratification from telling him this. Instead he said, “So you’re telling me, that without provocation, he verbally assaulted a manager and stormed out?” It was a struggle to keep the protective rage from coloring every word, and he was certain some slipped past.

Jean sighed deeply. “Go talk to Sean. He heard more than I did. And I think Angel and Alex talked to him before he walked out.” 

Charles was already turning to walk away before she finished her thought. When she called after him he was almost halfway down the stairs. 

“I know you guys are close.” She hesitated and he didn’t slow his pace. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, I like Erik.”

“Yea, I like him too,” Charles muttered under his breath.

Once on the restaurant’s main level, Charles, without clocking in or checking his station assignment, cut a path to Sean. 

Unsurprisingly, he was leaning against the wall in the kitchen, not so subtly jabbing at his phone. He looked up just as Charles entered his personal space, his eyes wide as if ready to be reprimanded. But Sean’s expression didn’t change once he processed the looming figure was not a member of management. 

“Dude,” Sean offered as both a greeting and an exclamation. 

Charles had no time for pleasantries, especially those of the inarticulate variety. “Jean told me you saw what happened.”

Sean stood motionless except for the hand continuously turning over his cell phone, fingers constantly working, like an unconscious tick. 

“Well?” Charles’s patience was long gone; he had discarded it along with his woolen jacket. Both his outerwear and his tact were huddled together in a cold metal locker waiting to be retrieved. 

“I mean, I saw _something_.”

“Why is everyone pussyfooting?” Charles moaned a bit too loudly. “Can someone tell me what happened? Anyone?” His eyes slid across the kitchen, his invitation coming across more of a challenge than the desperate and imploring need for knowledge that it was. 

Alex stepped from behind the line, adjusting his ratty baseball cap. He strode over to Charles calmly, completely relaxed, as if they both had all the time in the world. His journey across the kitchen was wordless, and remained so until he was so close that Charles could see the burns scattered across his pale forearms, and smell the caked-on scent of fried food. 

“You sort of look hysterical, Charles.” Alex said it low, as if trying to diffuse a situation Charles wasn’t even aware existed. “He’s fine. He’s just not here.”

“Well then that begs the question… where is he?” Charles was whisper-screaming, was completely aware how undignified it sounded, and didn’t care.

Alex grabbed his bicep, pulling him into the corner of the kitchen. Sean, nearly forgotten at this point, trailed behind like a lost lamb.

“Look, they threatened to call the police on him—”

“What!” Charles’s eyes were wild and furious, the deep blue raging like storm clouds.

“Just calm down and listen to me. They didn’t. It’s fine.”

“How can you say it’s fine? Jean says Erik,” Charles lowered his voice as he uttered the name, “accosted Emma and now you’re saying there were threats to involve the authorities?” Charles dragged his hand down his face in a show of exasperation. “Would you please just tell me why this happened? Please, anyone? From the beginning?” Despite having just woken up, he sounded exhausted. 

Sean piped up from somewhere behind Alex’s shoulder. “We were setting up the kitchen and Shaw popped his head in. Which was weird. Dude never steps foot in the kitchen. This place could be on fire and someone would have to physically remove him from the office…” Sean trailed off and the look of Charles’s face was enough to get him back on track. “Anyway, Shaw tells Erik to meet him in the office. He has to talk to him or something. Erik just shrugs and walks out. I was sort of pissed because I was getting left with all the setup. They could’ve waited until everything was ready…”

Charles was motioning emphatically with his hands. He was rolling them around, creating the international symbol for “get a move on,” nodding his head impatiently. 

“OK, so Erik’s only gone for like, 5 minutes,” Sean continued, “and I hear the office door slam. Seriously. From all the way down the hall I heard it slam. And then Erik’s voice. So of course I snuck out of the kitchen to listen.” At that Sean starts to walk away from the other men, mimicking his earlier actions. Charles and Alex follow, rapt. “And Angel was already out there, peeking around the corner.”

Angel must have been listening, and heard her name, because she stepped into the kitchen just as the other three were nearly to the door. 

“Angel, you finish. You heard more.” Sean moved to stand next to the girl who was still wearing her customary super short skirt despite the snow. 

That was all the prompting she needed. “So I see Shaw come and get Erik, and I think ‘I didn’t even know boss man was here’ because Emma was stomping around when _I_ got here. I thought it was just her. A few minutes later Erik is yelling and swearing outside the office and I can hear Emma answering back. He was calling her a liar, and saying how two faced she is, and she was just taking it. Her voice was all calm and shit.”

“That’s when I got out there,” Sean interjected. “Then Shaw came out of the office and told Erik to leave since he was no longer employed here.”

Angel jumped in as Sean took a breath. “And Erik had to walk right by us to get his coat, so, even though he looked like he was gunna grab an axe a take off some heads, I asked him what the fuck was going on.”

“And all he said was ‘I quit.’ That’s it!” Sean’s cheeks were scarlet and his hair looked as if it had become disheveled by simply recounting the scene. 

“That’s all he said?” Charles’s voice was tight and pinched.

“Yea, I was out there when he walked past to leave.” Alex’s voice caught Charles off guard. He had forgotten the cook was still beside him. “I asked him what was up, and if he was OK, but he just blew past me.”

“So you all know nothing?” Even Charles was a bit taken aback by the harshness in his voice. His coworkers seemed to simultaneously take a step back and away from him.

“Hey, asshole, watch your tone, “Angel shot at him. “I know that’s your work husband and all, but you need to—”

“’Work husband'? What’s that supposed to mean?” Charles asked, both genuinely curious and a bit annoyed at his current lack of knowledge… about everything it seemed.

Angel huffed dramatically, as if Charles was the stupidest person she’d ever encountered. And that was saying a lot, considering she dealt with tourists 35 to 40 hours a week. “He’s your work husband.”

“Just repeating it isn’t going to make me understand.”

“So, everyone has their work spouse,” she exhaled again, with less annoyance and more resignation, “the person you go to when you get stressed. The person you text to check your schedule for you. The person you bring coffee to.” Angel had been addressing the group, but glanced pointedly at Charles during that last part. The other two were nodding agreement. 

“I don’t know if I’d… I mean, I wouldn’t classify us as ‘husbands.’ I certainly…” Charles was flustered. He was teetering somewhere between defensive and slightly pleased to be have such an intimate title assigned to what they shared. He must have begun smiling because…

“Oh my god!” Angel started jumping up and down. “You _do_ like him like that! I _knew_ it!”

Charles was clearly encouraged by her childlike, and admittedly adorable, reaction because the next words out of his mouth were completely unexpected. “I guess we are kind of dating.” The admission caused a light flutter of panic in his chest. They were, right?

Angel’s glee only grew and she began clapping her hands together lightly. “You’re dating your work husband! That’s so cute!” She paused. “Even if it is Erik.”

Sean reached into his pocket and peeled off a pair of bills from his wad of cash. He handed them to Alex with a resigned, “You called it, man.”

Charles looked at the two, face contoured in horrified surprise. “Did you two make a bet? About Erik and I?”

“Hey,” Alex raised his hands defensively, “it was totally innocent.”

“Yeah, it’s not like we bet on when you guys were gunna bone or anything.” Sean’s colorful choice of words earned a snort from Alex. “What?”

“Just when one of you would admit you were into each other.” Charles was still mildly scandalized. “Hey,” Alex added, “we kept it classy!”

“Yes, thank you,” Charles murmured, the glow that came from acknowledging he and Erik were a couple dissipating. “So does anyone know where he went?”

“Nah, he won’t answer my texts,” Sean replied with renewed interest in his mobile.

“I guess I’ll try to call him—” 

Angel cut Charles off. “Wait! I heard Emma and Shaw after Erik left. They were walking past me and Emma said something about Janos and the main bar missing stuff and said she wished she didn’t have to rat Erik out. Shaw was nodding and told her she did the right thing.” Angel shrugged. 

It only took a moment for the wheels in Charles’s head to start turning with ferocious speed. “That duplicitous wench…” he forced out from behind clenched teeth.

“What? You know what that means?” Alex asked.

“I think I do.” Charles was already moving toward the kitchen door. “Hey Angel, no one’s seen me yet. Will you just tell one of them I called and said I couldn’t make it in because of the snow?”

Angel followed behind, offering a parody of a salute. “Yes, sir! Go find your husband!” she called after him.


	10. Chapter 10

Charles was out of the building and around the block before the thrumming of his pulse slowed to a manageable level. It was then that he realized he had no idea where he was going, but he walked on just the same.

The sidewalks were treacherous, mostly shoveled, but still icy. His non-slip shoes did shockingly little to keep him from skidding around corners. 

His numb fingers had dialed Erik’s number an embarrassing amount of times. He had the opening strains of his voicemail message burnt into his brain. 

Charles worried that Erik was purposely avoiding his calls. Perhaps he wanted to be left alone? That would certainly make sense. Although, Charles wanted to be the shoulder Erik chose to lean on. Maybe what had unfolded mere hours before meant less to the other man… Charles shook the thought away. No, this wasn’t about the two of them. This was about horrid woman who, it seemed, decided to start telling bold-faced lies about Erik. 

He would need confirmation of course, but, as Charles slipped around the streets of midtown Manhattan, he began to put together a probable course of events. 

Shaw had gotten too close to figuring out where all the missing liquor was going. Emma, on the hook for both knowing the truth and hiding it, as well as fooling around with the real culprit, gave Erik up. Charles gnawed on his lower lip, placing the puzzle pieces while wandering aimlessly, the cold barely registering. 

It made sense. Shaw had to know Erik wasn’t fond of Emma. He didn’t exactly hide it. And Emma could claim Erik had ample opportunity to either give away drinks or simply take whole bottles of alcohol when he worked the bar alone on Sundays. It was Occam's razor, right? What other explanation could there be? Emma’s wild abuse of power and outright betrayal would justify Erik’s reaction. It’s not like he was some homicidal maniac bent on world domination…

As Charles struggled, again, to round a corner without falling on his face, he felt oddly victorious, like a world-class detective. Except he had no idea where Erik was, and that was the mystery he was most concerned with solving. He slowed to poke at his phone with dead fingers. Erik’s gravely voice requesting Charles leave a message answered back. With a deep sigh he rolled his head back in a vain attempt to relieve the tension gathered there. That’s when he realized where he was.

Somehow, after hours of mostly aimlessly wandering, Charles had inadvertently ended up back at his building. His good sense told him this was the best place to be if Erik decided he wanted to talk. Charles could prepare hot coco and wrap Erik in a blanket, stroke his hair and mumble nonsensical, soothing words into his skin. All Charles wanted to do was hold Erik close. He wanted to be the other man’s rock, his safe port. But he also wanted to leach some of Erik’s heat and curl into him in the most selfish way imaginable. He had gotten a taste of Erik and now he wanted to drown himself in it. It was an achingly desperate feeling, but Charles was too cold and worried to care how unbecoming his need was.

So he stood staring up at the rather grand entryway to his building. He should go in. His phone would die soon since he hadn’t charged it the night before. His socks were wet and his feet were so cold they prickled as though someone had thrown boiling water on them. Plus he had to pee. Charles assured himself that this was not giving up. It was simply regrouping, the more reasonable parts of his brain chiming in with how little good blindly walking snow covered streets was doing. 

Charles bounded up the shoveled steps, reveling in the dry heat that slammed into him as he entered the foyer. He would just change clothes, warm up, grab a protein bar, and head back out feeling reinvigorated. He nodded to the doorman, the same gentleman from last night, hurrying past him toward the elevator. 

“Mr. Xavier?” 

Charles barely registered that he had been spoken to, nearly stepping into the waiting lift. 

He paused, turning his head slightly. “Hmm?”

The doorman simply motioned with his head in the direction of the building’s small sitting area. Charles impatiently glanced over, ready to feign interest and hurry on his way. Except when he peered into the quaint space, he was greeted by the back of a head and the accompanying familiar mop of rich brown hair made curly by the snow.

He edged forward, cautiously, as if any sudden movements might reveal the figure was nothing more than a specter sent to haunt and tease Charles. 

Erik turned back to look at him as Charles’s shoe unceremoniously squeaked across the tiled floor. Charles wasn’t sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t a lopsided grin and an unselfconscious hug. Erik had closed the distance so quickly Charles hadn’t had even a moment to assess the situation, or begin to formulate articulate questions. So he stood there, with Erik’s arms wrapped around him, too many bulky layers of cloth separating them. 

“How was work?” Erik asked innocently.

“I didn’t. I mean, I left. I’ve been looking for you.”

Erik pulled back, meeting Charles’s eyes. “You were in Queens?” he asked with genuine surprise.

Charles lowered his gaze and stared at Erik’s neck. Embarrassment crept into his cheeks staining them a deeper red than that left by the cold. Because no, he hadn’t even thought to go to Erik’s _home_. “No… that would have made too much sense…” Charles trailed off. “I walked around Midtown,” he breathed out, almost an admission.

Erik chuckled softly, letting his arms untangle from around Charles, aware of how awkward they must look loitering around the front desk. “You should have known this is where I’d head,” he glanced at the doorman, “since it’s so close to work.”

The mention of “work” snapped Charles out of his Erik-induced haze. The man’s mere presence was enough to send Charles reeling. He had nearly forgotten why he’d been so concerned in the first place. “Are you OK? What the hell happened? Why didn’t you answer your phone? Why do you seem so calm?” Charles shot the questions off like he was reading from a grocery list. Or unloading a firearm. They were rapid queries barely punctuated and made heavy as they exited Charles down-turned mouth.

“Um… yes, let’s talk upstairs, I left it here, and because I’m fine.”

Charles’s mind was still a few steps behind Erik’s concise response. “Huh?” was all he could muster.

Erik laughed again, this time a bit more than a chuckle. His buoyant mood unnerved Charles. He was aware that the more nuanced of Erik’s reactions were still foreign to him. But from what Charles did know of his temperament… well, his cool demeanor was simply unexpected.

“I’m fine,” he said plainly and reached his hand out to brush the beading water droplets from Charles’s shoulder when he began to frown. “Honestly,” Erik offered more earnestly, “I’m fine and I will tell you everything if you’d just invite me upstairs.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Charles was floundering a bit.

They stepped into the elevator wordlessly and shuffled to Charles’s door in a similar fashion. Once inside, Erik slipped off his shoes and made a beeline for the kitchen counter. He reached for his cell phone and scrolled through the screen as he made his way to meet Charles at the couch.

“27 missed calls? Really, Charles?” But there was no mockery in his voice, only fondness, and it seemed to warm the air around them.

“I was worried,” Charles muttered as Erik settled onto the couch.

“You’re very sweet.” He continued to scroll. “I suppose Sean’s 11 missed calls and… 16 text messages were motivated less by concern.”

“Well you weren’t answering. We figured you were so upset you’d been ignoring us.”

“I’d never ignore you,” he replied, almost cutting Charles off, eyes still trained on the illuminated screen.

Charles exhaled loudly. The unsolicited admission settled in his chest with the heat of a burning coal. “I’d never ignore you.” He turned the words over in his head, watching in silence as Erik continued fiddling with his cell. 

Erik’s mouth opened in silent surprise then. But as soon as it had appeared it was replaced by a sneer. This was the Erik Charles had been anticipating. But now that he was here, Charles desperately wanted the calm, collected Erik back.

“There’s one from Emma.” His voice was tight and something dark danced behind his eyes. 

“What does it say? Erik, what happened?” Charles fought to keep his questions to a minimum, still prepared to treat Erik like a timid animal. These just slipped out, and were colored with something close to pleading.

“What I sort of knew was bound to happen.” Erik finally looked up at Charles, and his gaze softened immediately. He sighed. “There was close to 4 full bottles of liquor missing last week. I guess Shaw finally decided to dole out punishment. Since Emma,” he said her name as if it were the most vile word to ever cross his tongue, “is ultimately the one in charge, he decided the blame should fall on her.” Erik glanced back at his phone and let out a laugh that held no humor. “She says she’s sorry.”

“She told Shaw it was you to save her own ass?” It was pretty much what Charles had suspected.

Erik nodded. “She told him that she’d known for a while. _Janos_ had told her. But since we'd been ‘such good friends’ she protected me. Shaw bought it and that’s when I got called in.”

“And Shaw fired you?”

“I guess he was planning on it. But as soon as I walked in and saw them standing there all serious… I suppose I snapped.” Erik inclined his head, almost shamefully. “I don’t really remember what set it off, but I know I was pissed before Shaw even said anything. I think it was the look of pity on Emma’s face. Fuck her for pitying me.”

“So you _did_ quit?”

“I guess? Is that was Alex said?” Erik’s shoulders slumped as he exhaled. “I don’t know. I definitely don’t have a job there anymore. I mean, I told Emma to go fuck herself. I think I said something about Shaw being a blind asshole who was being played.”

“Well good.” Charles sent his approval out into the ether. 

“I’m not a thief,” Erik said, a painfully earnest expression crossing his face.

“I know,” Charles nodded, placing his hand atop Erik’s, “I wouldn’t date a thief.”

Erik smiled broadly, edging closer to Charles on the couch. “Is that what this is? ‘Dating’?”

“That’s certainly what I’d like it to be.”

“You’re OK dating an unemployed maniac that yells at women?”

Charles snorted as he leaned into the space between them. “It’s not like she didn’t deserve it… and maybe you can go back to school…”

Erik’s face was less than a foot away from Charles’s. “I’d really rather not talk about this now.” His breath was hot on the other man’s face as he spoke.

Charles nodded dumbly, his head swimming. Erik reached up and placed his palm gently at the back of Charles’s head, encouraging him to close the remaining distance.

They both moaned into the kiss. Erik’s fingers felt hot against the still cool skin of Charles’s face. He desperately wanted those heated hands sliding over his body. Erik was obviously on the same page because clothing was suddenly being tugged off, starting with the coats they both still wore.

Charles was painfully hard and desperate to get out of his pants. Erik fumbled with his own belt, still nipping at Charles’s lips as they pulled apart just enough to disrobe. 

“You didn’t happen to pick up condoms during your exhaustive search of Manhattan.” It wasn’t a question.

The noise that escaped Charles’s mouth was not human. He rested his forehead on Erik’s bare shoulder, stone still. “I didn’t think you’d be in any mood to fuck, Erik.”

Charles’s tone was deadly serious, and that made Erik shake even harder with laughter. “Well I was hoping you’d comfort me,” he said coyly and ran his hand down Charles’s back, eliciting a small shudder. 

“I need to be close to you,” Charles spoke into Erik’s skin. “Fuck it. I need to be close to you,” this time with more conviction. “Lay back. Let me blow you while I jerk off.”

Erik gasped softly, allowing Charles to push him on to his back. They both scrambled with clumsy digits to get Erik’s trousers undone.

“You know, I don’t want to work there without you.” Charles’s face was too close to Erik’s crotch for them to be having this conversation. 

“Huh? You’ll be fine.” Erik started pulling down his pants.

“Getting to see you was the only reason I liked it there.” There was still need splashed across Charles’s face, but now it was mixed with sadness and a longing that was far from lusty.

Erik stilled slightly, cock hard and bobbing ever so close to Charles’s now pouting lips. “We don’t need that place to be together. You have me, Charles. I’m yours.” He ran a hand through Charles’s hair and the man between his legs leaned into the touch.

“You’re a real sweet talker,” and Charles licked his lips, eyeing Erik’s length, returning to the moment. “That’s surprising.”

“You’ve got a lot to learn about me.” Erik’s hand was still on Charles’s head and he fought the urge to pull him closer, encouraging him to begin sucking. 

Charles hummed in soft agreement. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to start at your dick and work my way from there.”

Erik’s eyes slid shut as Charles began placing teasing kisses on his cock. He could hear the sound of skin on skin as Charles started stroking himself. “We go out for condoms later.”

“Mmm,” Charles concurred, mouth full, but still grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind words, encouragement, and patience. 
> 
> And also, a big thanks to my dear [Koona](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Koona/pseuds/Koona/) for yelling at me when I lost my voice, and reminding me who I was writing for.  
> <3


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